


Conversations on Etiquette, Grammar, and the Relevance of Skirts

by 100percentclass



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Cultural Differences, Female Bilbo, Female Thorin, Gen, Misgendering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 22:37:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3398792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100percentclass/pseuds/100percentclass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins, having been mislabeled as a "he" by Thorin on far too many occasions, finally works up her courage and decides to set things straight. But it turns out that the misunderstandings at play are not at all what she thought, and they go both ways, besides.</p><p>Meanwhile, one minor mystery is solved: why <i>are</i> there so few female dwarves, anyway?</p><p>---</p><p>  <i>The inspiration for this fic is that, while casually browsing, I've seen loads of girl-Bilbo fics and very few girl-Thorin fics. So I figured, more girls is always better, right?</i></p><p>  <i>(Yes, that is right, I am right about this.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversations on Etiquette, Grammar, and the Relevance of Skirts

**Author's Note:**

> Note 1: The Khuzdul language will be referenced here. Please note that I have done exactly zero research on the grammatical properties of Khuzdul, and am not attempting to accurately represent the language as constructed by Mr. Tolkien. I'm essentially just stealing the idea of second language learning errors for my own devious purposes.
> 
> Note 2: This fic is about gender, and most certainly not about irrelevant details of anatomy. The latter is left open to interpretation.

_Perhaps this was a mistake,_ thought Bilbo as she bent nearly double, hands against her knees and a sharp pain in her side, _if I am so poorly equipped for so much as a morning run through the Shire._

Nonetheless, what was done was done, and here she was, clutching feebly at a contract and gasping for air, with thirteen pairs of eyes fixed directly upon her. Fixing a determined frown upon her face, she looked up to face them. The first pair of eyes she met belonged to one Thorin Oakenshield, who matched her with an inscrutable, but undeniably unimpressed, stare. Embarrassed, Bilbo was the first to break contact and glanced instead towards Gandalf the wizard, whose mildly amused expression was comfortingly familiar in comparison, if not particularly flattering.

For a moment nothing more was said, leaving Bilbo with her own shrill cries ringing endlessly in her ears. ("Wait wait! I'm coming!" she had shouted, while she scampered like a duckling following after its mum. Highly undignified, and certainly irregular. All the neighbors had most definitely heard heard, so now she truly _would_ have to leave town, just for the sake of her own pride.) Finally, though, Thorin turned back to the road and growled, "Fine. Somebody get him a pony."

For a moment Bilbo merely froze, as embarrassment mixed with confusion with a sharp twist in her gut. _"Him?"_ Was this some sort of insult, or a joke? After a moment she managed to stammer, "Er -- what, I mean, what do you --"

"Are you coming, or not?" said Thorin, not looking back.

"Well, I mean, yes, I suppose I --"

"Fine, then. No more delays. We leave immediately."

It was a beautiful day for a journey, really: all of the Shire had opened like a flower to the gentle summer sun, and all around them were the green and growing things to wish them well along their way. A soft and warming scent was carried past on the breeze, of roses and pipeweed smoke and growing grass, the distinct and favourite smells that spoke to Bilbo of home and safety. But as she was hauled up onto a pony and led away, she no longer felt any excitement for the journey ahead, but only a growing twist in her gut, a sense of wrongness in more ways than one.

\---------------------------------------

Several days dragged on, and Bilbo had not yet traded her skirts for the comfortable trousers she had stowed in her little pack. It wasn't unheard of for women to wear trousers in the Shire, and many often chose to do so for various reasons, but Bilbo couldn't help but feel a bit _off_ in them, as if she was wearing a costume. Her mother had always taught her, through example as through words, that a proper gentlehobbit always wore skirts for guests and special occasions. Out here in the wilderness, surrounded by strangers, Bilbo had to admit that trousers were far more practical, but a small part of her still would feel safer if she could present herself at her best, for the wide and unknown world to see. For if an adventure isn't a special occasion, then what is, really?

Later, Bilbo would think back and realise that all in all, Thorin had really been remarkably patient, at least for him. He endured nearly a week of Bilbo sitting awkwardly sidesaddle on her pony (and often nearly slipping off as a result), snagging her skirts on tree branches (and complaining, loudly, at every new tear), and tripping regularly when back on the ground (for as it turns out, managing long skirts in the middle of the wilderness is quite a different matter than managing them in town). In point of fact, he had barely spoken to her since her belated decision to join the expedition.

The last straw, it seemed, came in the evening, as the party halted and prepared to make camp. Bilbo had begun her usual routine of gingerly maneuvering herself down from her precarious position on her pony's back. As she began to lower herself down, the hem of her skirt snagged between her foot and the stirrup, and the sudden imbalance sent her tumbling down from the saddle to land in a loud and painful heap on the forest floor.

At last Thorin whirled and snarled, "By Durin's beard, haven't you got anything _practical_ to wear? At this rate, you will not last a week before tripping off a cliff, or setting your own clothes on fire, or ... or falling directly on top of a hungry wolf."

Gandalf leaned over from the back of his own horse. "My friend, a little sympathy wouldn't go amiss," he suggested mildly. "Our poor burglar is likely to be one large bruise by morning."

"I'll hear nothing on the subject from you, Master Wizard," Thorin snapped in response. "You were the one that saddled us with this _burglar_ in the first place, where anybody can see that he is surely the _least_ suited to the task, of all creatures in Middle Earth."

Again the peculiar pain twisted Bilbo's gut, and all of a sudden the aches of her fall seemed entirely inconsequential. For a moment she allowed herself to lay still and silent where she had landed, as if to draw strength from the forest itself. She could feel her heart pound, thudding wildly and insistently against her ribs.

When she heaved herself up again, Thorin had already gone, but Gandalf was regarding her with a concerned and sympathetic look. He turned away from her quickly, pulling down his hat and muttering something about firewood, before he disappeared into the trees.

The next day, Bilbo wore trousers. If Thorin noticed the change at all, he did not mention it.

\---------------------------------------

Things did not get better after that. Bilbo came to feel as if she was in an endless bad dream, staggering through a haze of hostility during the day and retreating from further contact at night. They passed green rolling hills list by sun as thick as warmed honey, and flocks of birds with colours as bright as flowerbeds, and all the strange and startling things in the world that a younger Bilbo would have longed to see. But still she kept her head down, and fixed her eyes on the road ahead, and wondered why she had ever left Bag End at all.

When Thorin acknowledged Bilbo's presence in the least, it was all " _He_ does not belong here," and "If _Master_ Baggins would please keep up," and more long these lines; and Bilbo could not determine if it was the message that hurt her the most, or if it was the words of the message, which still made no sense no matter how hard she tried to understand them. The twist in her gut was nearly constant now. It set her heart to thumping when she tried to fall asleep, and made food taste flat and dry in her mouth. Never before had Bilbo lost her appetite, or even known it was something a hobbit could _lose_ , but here she was.

One night she waited, until after the dark had fallen and most of the party of dwarves had settled down in their bedrolls to sleep, and Gandalf had wandered off a few paces for his nightly contemplation (or whatever it is that wizards do with their solitude). Bilbo, navigating by the faint glow as he lit his pipe, crept out to join him in the dark.

Gandalf said nothing as she settled herself onto a low stone near his own seat, and for a moment the two of them simply sat and gazed off into the darkness of the night, and thought.

"Gandalf," Bilbo said at last, "You must know I have come to ask for your help."

He glanced at her sidelong from beneath his hat and took a long drag from his pipe. After another few beats of silence he exhaled a slow stream of smoke, slumping a little as it drifted away. "Yes, my dear Bilbo, I daresay I do. But at the same time, _you_ must know that I cannot solve this problem for you."

Again the twist. "But really, Gandalf, I don't even understand what keeps happening -- why he seems to hate me so much, and why he talks to me the way he does, and -- he _listens_ to you, a bit --"

"I'm sorry," interrupted Gandalf, and a bit of steel had crept into his voice, "but this is really something that should not be done through a third party." (Twist.) "I will tell you this much, Bilbo: there has been a misunderstanding -- at _least_ one, I should say -- but it is not quite what you think it is. Here is a rule I follow: I will not play the messenger in situations such as these, where words passed from ear to ear are more likely to worsen confusion than ease it." He turned to look at Bilbo more fully, and there was genuine pity in his eye. (Twist.) "I'm sorry, my dear, but I really must recommend that you talk to Thorin about your concerns yourself -- in this, you are on your own." _(Twist.)_

"I see," said Bilbo. Silence fell again. Finally she stood and turned away, refusing to meet Gandalf's pitying glance. "I suppose I shall be getting to sleep, then."

It was difficult to focus on the dark ground through the haze of disappointment and nausea radiating from the twist in her gut, and Bilbo stumbled several times as she made her way back to the fire where the bedrolls had been laid out. She hardly even had the strength to feel surprised, or dismayed, when she saw Thorin watch her approach.

"Are you quite alright, Master Baggins?" he asked in a low voice with no sympathy in it. "I had rather hoped you'd gotten over your habit of tripping over the entire forest."

"Not a Master," Bilbo muttered under her voice as she turned to her bedroll without looking at Thorin.

"I beg your pardon, Master Baggins?"

The twist suddenly turned hot, and surged upward into her throat, bitter and acidic. It had changed to something new: the first kindling of a slow and heavy rage. "Nothing," said Bilbo, nearly choking on the anger pressing in behind her words. "Nothing at all."


End file.
